


Lights

by Trash



Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, and depression, did I mention the ghosts thing?, ghosts and shit apartments, make of that what you will, this made my beta reader cry so idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: Kyle gets a flat, with bonus flatmate.





	Lights

**Author's Note:**

> _Do you know what it hurts like to be left alone?  
>  Do you know what it hurts like?_

So, say you went to University in Leeds. And that was because clearing is a thing, and your mum kept crying (actually crying, and saying "I thought you'd want better than this, Kyle." This being, staying in London and working three shit jobs.) 

Leeds, then. And fucking hell are things cheap in Leeds. And trebles are a thing that exist. Trebles. Like, three shots in one glass. And they cost anywhere from £5 down to £1 and they're always, always, something to regret the next day if not immediately. But...

But then you graduate. And your mum's crying and wailing had made you think maybe going to uni was going to be the thing that saved you from...whatever people who hadn't graduated university did. Work in the pound shop? Maybe?

Except that's not real life. And you graduate with a 2.1 and nobody gives a shit. Nobody. But your family are proud of you, and they all get a photo of you looking like a prize knob in a hat and gown that cost over £100 to hire (and you're not allowed to throw that hat, did you know that?) and then things just go back to normal. 

And you go back to London and back to two thirds of the shit jobs you had before. And it turns out that there's a girl working in the pound shop near your mum's house who has a first degree in biochemistry. 

(There's this thing on the internet that shows you which words entered the dictionary when you were born. Boomerang Generation was yours. Which says everything about your life, and the collective life of other millennials, that you've ever needed to know.)

So you're twenty one. And you're back living with your mum in London. 

And fuck that noise. If you have to be here you're not going to actually be here. As in your childhood bedroom. 

One of the many things you forgot about London is how fucking expensive things are. The rent for a one bedroom shit hole in London could be used to pay two months of mortgage on a three bedroom house in Leeds. 

The first place the estate agent takes you is a bedsit. And there's worse places to live, you suppose. Like under a bench in Russell Square. The definition of bedsit seems to be used very liberally - because this is literally just a tiny kitchen with a mattress in it and a shower in the corner. 

"The toilet is shared," the estate agent says. "It's £950 per calendar month," he says. 

This guy. With his branded mini and massive iPhone. This guy seems to think this hole in the ground with its shared toilet and monthly rent so astronomically high you're probably going to have to sell your organs on the black market to afford it is an absolute steal. This guy, is an arsehole.

You don't take it. You also don't take the flat share which is basically the brain child of two mates who clearly can't quite make the rent themselves so they've added a fucking partition screen to living room and shoved a bed behind it. You don't take the disused shed, being creatively listed as a log cabin. And you're about to give up but then your mum gets so sick of you that she throws the paper at you, a listing circled and circled and circled until the pen has gone through the page and ripped the one beneath. 

"Looks good," she says. What she means is that it looks cheap and she wants rid of you. So you go and see it. 

It is cheap, particularly compared with the absolute piss takes you've been shown around. But that's a pretty low bar, so you're entirely expecting there to not be windows in the place or for the estate agent to suddenly announce that the bedroom is off limits between 2 and 5 on a Saturday morning because of the prostitution ring the landlord runs from your mattress once a week. 

But it's surprisingly fine. It's a one bedroom flat with a kitchen/living room running the length of it, the other half split between the bedroom and the bathroom. There's huge, sash windows, there's light fittings and furniture and none of it looks like anything you'd be overly concerned about running a black light over. The door doesn't have a big, splintered hole in the middle where the police have kicked it in. 

"How much did you say it was, again?"

"£600."

You frown, and the estate agent sighs as if she's so sick of explaining herself. "I know. I know. It's not got any weird terms and conditions or anything," she says, running her finger over her notes on her clipboard. "Bills are included, so is the service charge."

"But..."

She looks up at you, looks away, looks back. "It's haunted."

You have to laugh. Because at this point that's not even the strangest thing you've heard. The road to hell is paved with the requests and caveats from landlords. Such as, "must be okay with rats" and "no window coverings can be hung" and "the microwave is shared and the rota for use can be found on the back of your door."

So you laugh, but the estate agent isn't laughing. "You. Can't be serious?"

"Deadly," she says, then flushes. "Pardon the pun."

You get home that afternoon and you're getting ready for work with your mum following you around going "was it no good then?"

"It was haunted, mum," you say. And you understand now how the estate agent must have felt, saying that out loud to you. And the expression on your mum's face is probably exactly what you looked like, and you roll your eyes. "I know."

"Go back," she says, smile more of a grimace at this point. "Have a second viewing."

You take Will with you this time, and mention the haunted thing straight away. He looks around without saying anything for a minute. "Doesn't seem haunted."

"Doesn't seem-" you close your eyes and count to ten. "How exactly does somewhere seem haunted?"

Will shrugs. "Does it seem haunted to you?"

Fair point. 

"Land lord probably doesn't want to rent to just anybody. Probably wants someone open minded enough to think, fuck it, I could live with a ghost."

"But what if there's been murdering happen here? What if I wake up murdered?"

Will shrugs. "That's a legitimate worry if you stop with your mum. She seemed overly pleased to find out I was coming with you today."

"Yeah, she hates me."

"So take the haunted flat. It'll be a laugh, at least."

So you rent the haunted apartment. And it's fine - it's closer to the tube for work, and it's cheap enough that you have money left over to buy food and beer and throw a house warming party. 

"Intimate," Will says. 

And yeah, okay, a party in a one bedroom flat. But people bring their own alcohol and a lot of it is left over the next day when they're gone so you can't complain. Other people's alcohol always tasted better anyway. 

You stumble out of your bedroom with a hangover like you've never had before and looking a lot like an extra from Shaun of the Dead to find some random guy in your kitchen. 

"Party's over, my guy. Time to go home."

The random guy turns to look at you. He pushes his glasses up his nose and sighs. “Didn’t she tell you? She said she’d tell you. Said you were okay with it, actually.”

“I have like, zero idea what you’re talking about,” you say. All you know is you need tea, but the random guy is standing in front of the kettle and he doesn’t look like he’s about the move. “I didn’t think anyone stayed the night but it’s fine, I suppose. Would you like some toast?”

“No, thank you.”

You’re teetering on the edge of politeness, just hanging there, toes curled over the edge. And you’re looking down into the black, bottomless pit of passive aggressiveness. At university, you had butter in the shared fridge with ‘you can share as long as you don’t leave crumbs’. So this guy, he had better watch out.

“I’m Dan,” he says.

You’re standing there, in yesterday’s kegs. You haven’t even brushed your teeth yet. “Kyle.”

“Yeah.”

“No offence, but what are you doing in my kitchen?”

“I live here,” Dan says. He stares at you blankly and it makes you uncomfortable and cold. Maybe this is the murdering that you had expected, maybe it’s going to happen now. And your family will have to identify your lifeless body, still full of alcohol from the night before and wearing boxers with a hole in the waist band.

“You live here.”

Dan runs a hand through his shock of dark hair and sighs.

“Look, mate, let me put some pants on so we can talk. Okay? Feels a bit…” you gesture to your crotch and hold up two fingers. “Two ticks.” You pull on your jeans and you’re still fastening them as you walk back out into the living room. “Right,” you say, but when you look up Dan’s gone. And maybe he just felt weird and didn’t want to hang about, but you know from experience how loud the front door is and what a ball ache it is to get open. Takes a swift kick to the bottom left corner, and there’s no way Dan, creeping Jesus though he may be, managed to do that and get out without you hearing anything.

You search the flat, which takes seconds because it’s not exactly a lofty mansion, and you still feel weird. Cold. And like you’re being watched. The murdering worry comes back so you pull on a t-shirt and grab your phone. You cross the road and look up at the building, at the window beyond which lies your flat, and turn your phone over and over in your hand before calling the estate agent to make sure nobody else has keys to the place.

“Can I speak to Helen, please?”

Time seems to freeze before Helen comes to the phone. Mostly because you forgot to put on some shoes and it’s February and you’re fucking freezing, but this is London so at least nobody is staring at you.

“Mr Simmons!” Helen says when she eventually comes to the phone.

“Hi. Yeah. I think I’ve been broken in to. Or, someone let themselves in. Maybe the land lord? Or his son?”

Helen hesitates. “What did he look like?” she asks.

“Youngish, like, my age? Tall, dark hair. Glasses.”

“Oh, Dan?” She sounds significantly less worried. Not a burglar, then.

“Yes!”

“Did he introduce himself?”

“Yeah, but I was standing in my shorts and when I went to get some jeans he had gone. And you know, the door. So I figured it must have been someone who knew the building otherwise I’d have heard him struggling with it.” You’re rambling. “Who is he?”

Helen breathes. “Remember when I said it was haunted?”

And oh, fucking hell. How did that particular gem slip your mind? You laugh, doubled over in the street. Still, people don’t look at you twice. “Dan’s a ghost?” You’re waiting for the punchline. But all you get is…

“Yes. He’s…I’m surprised you’ve met him already. He’s pretty shy. If he went away though you must have offended him. What did you say?”

There really is a ghost in your flat. A ghost called Dan. A shy ghost called Dan. In your flat. And you think, for no reason because really what in fuck’s name, you think about the music last night and wonder if it kept him awake and then in the same thought you wonder if ghosts even sleep and you try to recall Casper but all you can think of is that weird bit with ‘can I keep you?’ and suddenly your hangover has you pitching to your knees on the curb and doing a particularly gruesome sick in the gutter.

Helen is on the phone going, “Hello? Kyle?”

You spit miserably. Nobody is looking at you, still, which speaks volumes of Londoners’ pathological fear of meeting another person’s eye. You take a few, deep breaths, then put the phone back to your ear. “Sorry. So. This ghost that I offended. Dan. Could you possibly…I mean, would you be able to explain what the fuck is going on?”

“That’s really more a conversation for you to have with him, don’t you think?”

“Oh, sorry. I was unaware of ghost-etiquette,” you say, hanging up and heaving one last time for good measure. 

When you get back to the flat you’re both pleasantly surprised, and deeply disturbed, to find that someone has tidied up. And that someone is probably Dan the Shy Ghost. You clear your throat and stand in the middle of the living room. “Um,” you say to the room, eloquently. “Hello?”

Nothing. Of course. This is all starting to feel like a wind up.

“Dan? Uh, sorry if I offended you before. I’m monumentally hungover, if that helps.”

Nothing.

Then you go cold and he’s there, just standing in front of the living room window with the same, bored expression he had on his face earlier. “Hello,” he says.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved or not. “I spoke to Helen.”

“Oh.”

“She wouldn’t tell me anything about you.”

“I’m the best person to discuss me with.”

You have to laugh at that. Dan watches you warily. “Yes. Of course. So. You’re a ghost. Like, dead? You’re dead? How did you die?”

“Organ failure,” Dan says. Which, okay, yeah that’s true. You were looking for specifics, though. Not sure why, but you have always suffered from morbid curiosity.

Instead of asking more you just say. “Right,” and, because you’re British and apparently have a new flatmate, “tea?”

Dan accepts, and seems to be sentient enough to hold a mug without it falling through his ghost hands and shattering on the floor. He blows the steam away and takes a sip and you watch like you’ve never seen anybody drink anything from a mug before ever and Jesus you really should stop staring but if you take away the dead-from-organ-failure-and-now-a-ghost thing Dan is really cute and okay now you’ve made eye contact and he’s looking at you despairingly.

“Sorry. I’ve never had a ghost for a roommate before.”

“But you have had a roommate before, right?”

You think of university, of the butter. Of the milk you once labelled ‘breast milk’ so people wouldn’t steal. “I wouldn’t necessarily say I was a people person.”

Dan smiles, sips his tea. “No, me either.”

So that’s that. And you find yourself accepting this all a little bit too easily. Probably because Dan is so pretty, in a sad, ghost-like way. You watch him drink the tea from the mug that was already in the cupboard when you moved in and you realise what’s happened. You haven’t gained a roommate – Dan has. You say as much.

Dan shrugs. “Yeah. You’re a lot nicer than the last one,” he says without elaboration.

You have so many questions – not restricted to the how did you die, _tell me tell me tell me was it murder_ train of thought – but you’re still not sure about the whole etiquette thing. But then you think, you’ve made him a cuppa. And it can’t be that bad because he’s drinking it, so you can always offer him another one if you balls this up.  
“Where do you sleep? Do you just haunt here?”

“I don’t sleep, and I prefer ‘live here’ rather than ‘haunt here’. Haunt is…so negative.”

“Okay. But you’re dead. So you don’t…live anywhere.”

Dan frowns. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“So…”

“So, I don’t sleep. And no, I don’t live anywhere else. Just here. But I’m not going to watch you shower or anything. Don’t worry.”

You hadn’t even thought about that. But now all you can think about is the crafty wank you had on your first night in the flat, a celebratory wank if you will, and wonder if Dan was here. Was he listening? Oh God, has he seen your O face?

So now you have a roommate. You try to tell Will about it but he just laughs. “Oh, baby,” he says, hand on your arm. And you’re in a pub and people are looking at you. And it’s fine, but you really don’t want people thinking Will is your type, because he categorically isn’t. 

"Don't 'oh, baby' me. You can come and meet him if you want."

"This is a euphemism, I'm sure of it. Come back to mine. Meet my ghost."

He comes along willingly enough anyway, and is only mildly smug when Dan doesn't show his face. 

"He's shy," you say. 

Will raises an eyebrow. "Right. Well, whilst I'm here you might as well get me a drink." He flops down on the settee and kicks off his shoes. As you dig through the fridge for a beer he says, "you should really get a telly."

"With what fucking money?"

"Dunno. You could do a Dereck what's his name off of that thing with the dead people."

"Accorah," Dan offers, helpfully. He sets Will's beer down on the coffee table on a coaster and smiles. Dimples for days. Dimples for fucking days. And you wish you could see Will's face from here but you can't because he has his back to you but you remember being sick in the gutter after meeting Dan for the first time and you feel a bit smug. 

"Hullo," says Will, after a full minute of silence. 

Dan raises a hand awkwardly in a little wave. You want to die inside. He's that cute. And for some reason you need Will to approve of him, like you did when you'd introduced him to your boyfriend at university and he had hated him instantly because he was a talented musician. 

("I'm not jealous."

"Right. The only conclusion left for me to jump to, then, is that you fancy me and that's why you don't like him."

"Fuck off, prick. That's not it."

"I think the lady doth protest too much.")

"Thanks," Will says, "for the beer. And. For not murdering Kyle in his sleep. He's the only friend I have who has their shit together less than me so I need to keep him around. For, you know, comparison."

Dan laughs. "Okay, that's convinced me not to murder him. Shame, its proper good murder weather today."

He's not wrong. It's that shit grey rain London seems to specifically specialise in for like, three quarters of the year. Dan turns the radio on before sitting down next to Will and you watch them chatting and you drink your beer in the kitchen like a loser. Seeing him from a distance, with his ridiculous hair that seems to defy gravity, and his black tshirt and skinny jeans, red converse kicked up on the coffee table. Seeing him with his stupid smile on his stupid face. That's when you realise you fancy a ghost. 

Your mum wants to come over. For fucks' sake. Like it wasn't bad enough that she pretty much, unceremoniously, kicked you out. But now she wants to come over and see your haunted flat and probably judge your for not emptying toast crumbs out the toaster or descaling your kettle because that's what mums do. 

You don't even have to say anything to Dan, he just smiles and vanishes as soon as you answer the door. 

Your mum does exactly what you expected, and is shaking the toaster over the sink when she spots the two dirty mugs on the side. "Will been round?"

"I have other friends, mum," you moan. That's a fucking lie, but your mum already thinks you're a loser and you're not willing to prove her right. But the other mug is Dan's, and you don't know what to say. 

"Oh. Okay. Someone else, then?"

"Yes."

"Anybody nice?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

Oh fuck. Don't say Dan. "His name is Dan." Oh fucking hell. 

Your mum smells blood and goes in for the kill. "Oh," she says, innocently. But you've been here before, and she's got her proverbial fangs out. "Just a friend, is he?"

"Uh. Yeah."

She looks vaguely disappointed. "Oh, right. Any chance of...anything."

"Mum. You're pretty invested in my sex life."

Your mum laughs. "I just want you to be happy. Tell me more about this Dan fella."

So you do. Loves music, does Dan. Wrote his own songs, you tell her. You don't tell her you sometimes hear his voice through the walls, singing soft and low or light and falsetto. Words and melodies you've never heard. Things maybe he wrote. 

You don't tell her he sang to you once when you couldn't sleep after a shit day at work. When you were having an absolute existential crisis because what the fuck? What the fuck? Working two jobs you hate to pay for a flat and food and beer and is this really what you came back here for? Should you have stayed in Leeds? But then Dan's voice was there to lull you to sleep, and remind you. You belong here you belong here you belong here. 

And you're so busy singing his praises without making it sound creepy that you almost miss the cold press of something to the small of your back. A hand, maybe? And if your mum notices she doesn't say anything. But she's smiling and has stopped shaking the toaster, so that's good.

That night Dan is in your bedroom and that's so fucking creepy. He's just sitting on the edge of the bed, expression carefully blank. 

"Come to sniff my kegs?"

He smiles weakly. "You told your mum about me."

Fuck. "Yeah. Um. I left out the bit about you being dead and that, doesn't seem like it's any of her business."

"She thinks I'm your boyfriend."

You wince. "Yeah, sorry about that. She just...assumes."

Dan nods. "Still want to know how I died?"

"Organ failure," you say, giving him the option to just laugh it off. 

"I killed myself," he says. 

And you're just standing there like an absolute plum, staring at him. You wish you could un-ask. Just, take it back and not know. But you can't, and he's just sitting on your bed looking at you. 

And, eloquently, you go. "Oh. Right."

"Just thought I should tell you." He shrugs like it's nothing. 

"Jesus. Thanks. I mean. For telling me. What uh, what happened?"

Dan shrugs. "Just got fed up. Everything was really exhausting."

"I feel like that sometimes," you say. 

And Dan says, "I know."

You're not sure how to handle this information. It feels heavy in your mind so you tell Will, who looks at you like you've just walked into his house and pissed on his telly. 

"He topped himself?"

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's something to be disgusted by. Yeah, he killed himself. Said he just got tired."

Will nods. "Don't do that."

You look at him. 

"You know what I mean. Don't do that, if you feel like that. Talk to me, or your ghost. Whatever."

You promise you will, because you know nothing has ever been that bad. Not for you. And it hurts you to know things were ever that bad for Dan. That he was ever that sad and alone. And fuck London, seriously. Because how can you be so surrounded by so many people and be so so lonely? 

When you get back to the flat Dan is sitting on the settee like he's waiting for you. He smiles, a tiny little smile. Dimples for days, and this tiny little smile. And you could just fucking cry. 

"You okay?" He asks. 

And you just look at him, trying to find the words. "I wish you weren't dead," you say. Which. Okay, that isn't exactly what you wanted to say really. But you're not really sure what you wanted to say. Fucking hell, this is just a nightmare. 

Dan smirks. "Okay?" 

"Sorry. I just mean. I wish I'd met you before."

"So you could save me?"

Yes. 

"That's not how depression works, Kyle."

"Whatever. I could have totally saved you."

Dan laughs, takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. "Okay," he says, placing them back on the bridge of his nose. "Okay."


End file.
